


the good fight

by challengeaccepted



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: But No Mind Control, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Misuse of the Force, This Got Hella Nasty I'm So Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-18 17:18:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5936545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/challengeaccepted/pseuds/challengeaccepted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FN-2187 is granted the opportunity to prove his loyalty to the First Order—by assisting in the interrogation of the captured Resistance pilot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the good fight

**Author's Note:**

> —Mild canon divergence; set after (not in place of) the TFA interrogation scene.  
> —Implied past Poe/Ben Solo.  
> —Non-con for Poe and dub-con (arguably) for Finn.

Nines came to get him during recon and he seemed, for the first time FN-2187 could ever recall, subdued. “Captain Phasma wants you in briefing room three,” he said, watching as the psytechs unhooked FN-2187 from the equipment. “She didn’t say why.”

“Captain Phasma?” said FN-2187 slowly. His mouth was dry and his entire body felt as if it was made out of the rubbery synthsust they’d served in the mess of the training base—a plate of which he would gladly have given up an aforementioned limb for at this moment. “She sent me _here_.”

“Well, she’s sending for you now,” said Nines, the _obviously_ going unspoken. “She didn’t seem happy about it, either.”

A psytech pressed a cup of water into FN-2187’s hand and he drank it gratefully, acutely aware of Nines’ gaze on him. A chronometer on the wall informed him it was now Centaxday, which explained both the nutrient drip and the disorientation; this was FN-2187’s first time experiencing the side effects of the recon process, but he knew he was luckier than some. Quads, a trooper from another fire-team with the official designation of FN-2222, had begun experiencing seizures after his third session and disappeared a few days later. Some speculated Quads had been transferred to janitorial or maintenance, while the more pragmatic troopers, Nines and Zeroes included, figured he had been quietly disposed of—numb limbs and a grumbling stomach were nothing in comparison. 

“FN-2187, you’re cleared to go,” a second psytech told him. “We’ll start the current session over when you return, then move on to the next stage.”

“Understood,” FN-2187 said, slipping his armor and helmet back on. He lagged behind Nines in the hallway, his legs still uncooperative, but Nines slowed his pace to accommodate FN-2187 rather than suggesting he catch up. Once FN-2187 would have perceived it as camaraderie; the F-11D blaster rifle held ready in Nines’ hands now indicated otherwise. A little more than twenty hours had passed since FN-2187 reported to recon—just what had happened in the intervening time for his friend to be escorting FN-2187 like a prisoner? 

“Is everything okay, Nines?” FN-2187 asked as they neared the briefing room. He placed a sympathetic hand on Nines’ shoulder, hoping to dispel some of the tension. “How did the deployment—”

“Slip’s dead,” said Nines, and FN-2187 froze in his tracks. 

“... _What?_ ”

Nines roughly shoved FN-2187’s arm away. “He’s _dead_. Took a bolt full-on to the stomach and didn’t get back up. Zeroes saw it happen,” he said. “All because of you.”

“Me? But I—” FN-2187 tried to force his body to move and found it was even less useful than before. He remained frozen in the hallway as troopers and officers thronged past him, completely unaware of his sudden, overwhelming grief. “The captain had me grounded ‘til I finished recon, you know that. I _wanted_ to be on this depl—”

“Don’t,” Nines said angrily, gloved hands balled into fists. FN-2187 wondered detachedly if Nines was going to hit him; it wasn’t as if he could feel anything right now. “You’re the one who kriffed up this fire-team. You’re the one who set him up to die. So _don’t_.” 

FN-2187 wanted to defend himself, but he knew it would only make things worse and besides he had no viable defense. Slip had been counting on FN-2187 to watch his back—he was more than culpable. He and Nines walked the rest of the way in miserable silence.

Inside the briefing room, Captain Phasma did a better job of hiding her unhappiness with FN-2187 than had Nines, yet his stomach was already churning uneasily before he had even lowered his salute. “FN-2187,” she said in her usual dispassionate tone. “Retrieve your weapon from the armory and report to the detention block on level five, section C. You are to assist with an interrogation.”

“Interrogation?” FN-2187 had no training in specialized tactics—interrogation was the domain of the intelligence officers and psytechs, not the broken trooper they’d had to put back together. “Respectfully, Captain, I don’t see how I can help.”

“Your assistance has been specifically requested,” Phasma said, and the faint emphasis indicated she was less than pleased with the order. “Need I have FN-2199 escort you?”

“No, Captain,” said FN-2187 hurriedly.

“Report to me when you’re finished.”

“Yes, Captain.” He couldn’t bring himself to move yet, however, and slowly she turned back to look at him. 

“You wish to say something else, FN-2187?”

“Is... is it true about Sli—about FN-2003?” FN-2187 asked, knowing the answer but unable to stop himself. “That he’s...”

“Yes,” said Phasma. “FN-2003 was fatally wounded on Jakku. His remains have been processed.” Her voice remained perfectly smooth and toneless. “Weak as FN-2003 was in all other aspects, he gave his life in the service of the First Order. An act for which perhaps he can finally be commended.”

“He was on my team,” FN-2187 said. “I might have been able to save him if I’d been there, Captain—I _know_ I could’ve.” Once the words were out, he realized he should have kept them to himself, but it was too late. Phasma’s helmet tilted as she considered him, but as for what she was thinking, he couldn’t say with any certainty.

“FN-2003’s death was an inevitability,” she said. “Your personal feelings of guilt do not benefit the First Order and will only be a detriment to your duties. If you must continue to mourn him, then do so in a manner that is productive.”

FN-2187 bowed his head. “Yes, Captain. I’m sorry.” 

Phasma continued to regard him from behind her chromed visor. “Do not let yourself become the weak link, FN-2187,” she said at last. “You are dismissed.”

“Yes, Captain,” he said, and this time he did leave. Nines was no longer there when he emerged from the briefing room; glad to be spared further conflict FN-2187 proceeded to the armory and from there to a series of lifts that brought him to the detention block. 

Only one of the cells had a guard stationed outside; when FN-2187 approached they nodded at him and keyed open the door. It closed behind FN-2187 with a soft hiss, and he began taking stock of his surroundings. Like the rest of the star destroyer the cell contained very little in the way of illumination—the decagonal walls were draped in shadows, the darkness broken only by the blinking of various displays and the dull gleam of a powered-down interrogator droid.

In the middle of the cell, strapped and shackled to an interrogation chair, was the prisoner. 

He wore civilian clothes, not the uniform of either the Republic or the Resistance, and his striking handsomeness was diminished only somewhat by the drying blood smeared across his forehead and underneath his nose. He appeared to be unconscious, sagging against his bonds and clearly at his physical limits, but there were no handheld interrogation implements in sight; FN-2187 knew heavy plasteel gauntlets would have done just as well in softening the prisoner’s resolve. Next to him, crouching in the darkness, was Kylo Ren.

FN-2187 saluted, trying not to let his fear bleed through. “FN-2187 reporting as requested, sir.”

“Leave your weapon at the door,” said Ren without preamble. “It will not be needed.”

The prisoner stirred, lifting his head slightly to focus on FN-2187. “You called for backup?” he said, his rough Outer Rim accent muddied by the split lip he was nursing, but his eyes seemed bright and alert—not what FN-2187 would have expected after hours of imprisonment, much less ten minutes with Kylo Ren. “What, too much for you to handle on your own?”

Ren ignored him. “I sense your discomfort, FN-2187,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ve summoned you here with a particular task in mind—one I have no doubt you’ll be particularly suited for.”

“Understood, sir,” said FN-2187. 

Until now FN-2187 had had little direct contact with Ren in the six days his squad had been aboard the _Finalizer_ and none of it up close, but the veteran troopers had had no shortage of stories to share with them. _Nobody knows what’s under Ren’s mask,_ one trooper had said. _It could be a droid in there for all we know._ Another had witnessed Ren reading the mind of a would-be assassin before crushing her trachea with a simple gesture; still another related having seen him carve up a bank of computers with his lightsaber in a fit of rage. The picture the veterans had painted was that of a man—or something that looked like one—who was extremely powerful, wildly unpredictable, and not to be disobeyed. What he wanted with a common trooper like FN-2187 was a mystery and a worrying one at that. 

“FN-2187 is a loyal member of the First Order,” said Ren. “He has pledged his life to the cause, and for that we have rewarded him. Here his talent has been nurtured; his initiative praised; his prowess, both physical and mental, carefully maximized and maintained—a potential that would have been squandered under the policies of the ailing Republic.” 

FN-2187 suspected Ren was mostly just showing off, impressing upon the prisoner how powerful the First Order’s forces were, but he felt his cheeks growing hot inside his helmet nonetheless as Ren continued speaking, more complimentary of FN-2187 in a few sentences than Phasma had in the entire six years he’d been under her command. 

The prisoner, on the other hand, looked utterly indifferent, slouching in his restraints as if he was listening to a particularly boring lecture on ancient Zygerrian trade routes. “I know all about the First Order’s crèche-nappings,” he said. “How old is this kid—sixteen, seventeen? How long have you been feeding him this propaganda bullshit for?” 

Ren ignored him for a second time. “FN-2187 is an exemplar of the ideal stormtrooper—he will do what it takes to carry out the First Order’s mission to restore peace to this broken galaxy. He understands that the price of such harmony comes at a cost we must be strong enough to pay, and he will take no half-measures when it comes to ensuring your cooperation.” 

“Trying something new, huh?” The prisoner kept his eyes on FN-2187 even as he spoke to Ren, who was now circling to the front of the room. “I’m impressed—you actually _did_ rethink your technique. Takes a pretty big boy to admit they have no idea what they’re doing.”

“I have more ideas than you realize,” said Ren absently, before turning to FN-2187. “Do you know this man?”

“No, sir,” said FN-2187.

Ren reached out to the prisoner, who recoiled, but instead of striking him Ren simply touched his fingertips to the man’s cheek. “Commander Poe Dameron,” said Ren. “The best pilot in the Resistance... and the most ruthless of this era’s war criminals. His exploits as a pilot have destroyed numerous First Order installations without regard for the innocent lives within, while his espionage efforts have sewn disorder and malcontent across countless worlds. He has intercepted and outright stolen crucial pieces of intelligence from the First Order and its allies, and delivered them to the Resistance that they may sabotage the stability we have worked so diligently to achieve.”

“Well, I can’t take all the credit,” Dameron said lightly. “Most of the credit, sure, but certainly not _all_ of it. It takes a lot more than one person to fight a guerr—” 

“ _Quiet_ ,” said Ren, gesturing, and Dameron’s jaw snapped shut. “This man acts not with honor but impunity; he is beholden to no one, not even his superiors. He follows his own treasonous, perverted notion of heroism and presents it as moral doctrine, corrupting those whom we would seek to protect... At last his hubris has brought him to his rightful and inevitable fate: his end at the hands of the First Order.” 

Dameron’s expression had morphed from contempt to skepticism to what appeared be incredulous amusement—like he genuinely couldn’t believe the words coming out of Ren’s mouth. “ _Wow_ ,” he said into the ensuing silence; it came out as a laugh, and he locked gazes with FN-2187, who realized that, despite himself and what he knew about the man, he could find him likable. “I don’t know who that Poe Dameron is you’re describing, but I sure as hell’d like to meet him.”

“Your asinine commentary is tiresome,” Ren said, clearly irritated. “Do not make me silence you again.”

Dameron grinned. “I do my best.”

Ren turned back to FN-2187—somehow it felt like Ren was looking through him. “This is the man that killed your friend,” he murmured. “FN-2003. He did not die immediately. Rather, he lingered for several hours until he died, utterly in agony.”

FN-2187 imagined the battle, imagined watching Slip’s life-signs fading away on his HUD, and felt a spark of rage suddenly ignite in his chest. Firing cannons from a cockpit was one thing but aiming a blaster at a target’s center-of-mass and pulling the trigger was another, and Dameron seemed smart enough to know the difference. Had he even thought twice about taking the life of another sentient being?

“No,” said Ren. “He did not.”

Suddenly FN-2187 was _seeing_ Slip fall, this time from the viewpoint of his killer, and he knew simultaneously that the vision was Kylo Ren’s doing, and that it was more than simply a vision—that it was a _memory_. Dameron’s memory. After Slip fell he changed targets immediately, concentrating only on taking down as many of the faceless, white-armored enemy as he could. Dameron aimed and fired, aimed and fired; FN-2187 shut his eyes tight in an attempt to block out the rest of the memory but it continued to play unbidden across his closed eyelids. 

Abruptly Ren withdrew from FN-2187’s mind, leaving him reeling from the sudden emptiness. Opening his eyes, FN-2187 saw that Dameron also looked stricken, but when he spoke his voice had taken on a hard edge. 

“Am I supposed to say I’m sorry? I’m the most ruthless war criminal of this era, remember?” he said, voice cold. “Besides, I did them all a favor—better to be dead than a mindless slave of the First Order.”

The flame of anger in FN-2187’s chest had been growing hotter by the second, and this only stoked it further. As if he could sense it, Ren looked in FN-2187’s direction and nodded almost imperceptibly before turning back to Dameron. 

“FK-3318. FL-2340. FL-2485,” Ren recited. “FL-2717. FL-3054. FL-3227. FM-1868. FM-2709. FN-1458. FN-1632. FN-2003. FN-2124. For these murders alone you have earned the sentence of capital punishment under Imperial law. The innumerable additional lives destroyed as a result of your sedition make it the First Order’s duty to render this justice swiftly and severely.”

Dameron snorted. “You call this justice? ‘Cause personally, I’d call it ‘summary execution’.”

“FN-2187 is not here to execute you,” said Ren, and for a moment FN-2187 wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed by the statement. 

“Better get around to fixing that, then,” said Dameron, lip curling. “The longer you wait, the more chance I end up pissing somebody else off so bad they’ll beat you to it.”

“Eventually,” agreed Ren. “But you have not yet outlived your purpose, Commander. Nor have I yet had the satisfaction of breaking you irreparably. After that, I assure you—it will be done.”

Dameron made an obvious show of yawning. “As long as that’s settled,” he said with finality. “Wake me up when you want to get back to the breaking part.”

“Tell me where you’ve put the map,” Ren said, looming over the interrogation chair. 

Dameron’s eyes grew wide with blatantly feigned innocence. “What map?” 

_Wrong answer_ , thought FN-2187.

Ren made a gesture and the restraints securing Dameron’s wrists and ankles fell open, but not for relief. Dameron slowly moved to rub his wrists and shake out his elbows, then dragged the sleeve of his jacket over his face to clean up the dried blood. He stepped down from the interrogation chair with difficulty; he didn’t look capable of running, nor putting up a fight, but FN-2187 still readied himself for action.

“Have at it,” Dameron said to him, stiffly spreading his arms in invitation. “Enjoy yourself.”

“Oh, I will,” said FN-2187. Kylo Ren had picked the right trooper for the job after all—he was already pinpointing the areas on Dameron’s body he planned to strike first. He assumed Ren wouldn’t allow him to deal any permanent damage, but the temporary nature of the punishment was no disadvantage; in fact, it worked in the First Order’s favor. No one, not even a Jedi, could withstand the pain forever, and Poe Dameron was just a man. 

He _would_ break. FN-2187 would see to that.

“Should I begin, sir?” he asked, expecting Ren to nod, but what Ren said instead took him by surprise.

“Commander,” said Ren, “remove FN-2187’s pelvic armor and service him with your mouth.”

At first FN-2187 wasn’t sure he’d heard Ren correctly, but Dameron’s reaction confirmed it. He shook his head, backing away as much as his pride would allow, and said, “Not a chance.”

“You would prefer if FN-2187 beat you?”

Dameron’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, actually.”

FN-2187 secretly agreed, but orders were orders—and it was also obvious Dameron _hoped_ that FN-2187, or one of his fellow troopers, would kill him and thus prevent him from betraying the Resistance. Upon reflection, Dameron’s endurance for pain had to be remarkably high to withstand physical coercion and even the IT-000’s advanced interrogation techniques; a psychological approach would likely produce faster results. Dameron could not be allowed to die before giving up the intelligence the First Order needed—that much FN-2187 knew.

Ren moved to loom over the prisoner again, cloak swishing behind him. “You _will_ do as I say,” he said. “Or I will begin transmitting the audiovisual feed from this cell to the Resistance, using the codes I have taken from you, and show them that they can, and will, be intimidated.”

“You would do that to the general?” Dameron said in a stunned voice. “You really _are_ a piece of Sithspawn.”

Ren’s voice didn’t waver. “That is no great secret.”

FN-2187 looked between the two of them, unsure at first why Ren wasn’t simply forcing Dameron to obey, but then realized there was more than a small element of shame involved—Dameron would have to _choose_ to abase himself in front of his captors, the resulting humiliation further weakening his mental and emotional defense. The technique, while seemingly irrational, was turning out to be more clever than FN-2187 had initially thought. 

“There,” he said, unlatching the white plasteel plate that covered his groin, revealing the relief seam on his bodysuit—troopers were accustomed to holding it in, but emergencies did happen—and Dameron’s eyes followed the motion as he tossed the armored piece aside. “Now you can’t pretend the armor got stuck.”

“Appreciate the help,” Dameron said, sarcastic. When Ren lifted his hand, he took a step toward FN-2187 and dropped to his knees, but he refused to move any further, jaw clenching as he visibly resisted Ren’s command.

“You’ve done this before,” Ren said. Somehow it wasn’t a question. “And eagerly so. Why now the hesitation?”

“You really have to ask?” said Dameron.

Ren let out a soft noise of amusement. “Trust that it is in your best interests to comply.” Dameron still didn’t move. “Continue to refuse,” said Ren, “and I will have FN-2187 fuck you dry.”

With a harsh exhale, Dameron hooked his fingers in the seam of FN-2187’s bodysuit and pulled it down, just far enough to expose his cock; Dameron’s mouth, however, remained stubbornly closed for a change. 

“You heard what Lord Ren said,” FN-2187 said, impatient. “Now open up.” 

Dameron lifted his chin, directly meeting FN-2187’s eyes. “You don’t have to do what the First Order tells you,” he said. “This isn’t right and you know it—you’re better than this. You have a choice.”

FN-2187 thought about the way Slip had fallen, alone and confused in the heat of battle, just one in a sea of faceless, nameless troopers, and felt his hands curling into fists. 

Dameron had had a choice. The First Order was just responding in turn.

“You don’t know a thing about me,” FN-2187 said, not bothering to hide his contempt. “And you’d better not even _think_ about biting, or you’ll be servicing the end of my blaster instead.”

Dameron exhaled, breath hot against FN-2187’s skin, and looked away. Another pause, drawing out the silence, then Dameron parted his lips and leaned forward to take him in. His mouth was hot and wet, and FN-2187 felt himself growing hard despite Dameron’s lack of effort, straining against the inside of Dameron’s cheek. When he thrust forward experimentally Dameron made a pained sound that FN-2187 felt run through his body; when he did it again Dameron’s hands came up to hold him back. 

“Take it,” FN-2187 hissed. “Take it, Resistance scum.” He felt powerful. He felt in control. He wanted to choke Dameron on his cock, and so he did. He let his hips drive forward and Dameron’s muffled cry was rewarding in itself—FN-2187 could hear his own breath hitching, his own pulse rushing through his ears. Dameron finally made an effort to relax, taking him in deeper, and FN-2187 couldn’t stop himself from groaning in pleasure—but neither was he too far gone, however, to lose himself in the sensations. 

He caught Dameron’s left arm moments before he was even fully cognizant of the man’s movement, wrenching the limb to the side and away from his utility belt; the special-issue N-40C thermal detonator Dameron had been reaching for contained enough baradium to vaporize the detention block and everything within—there wouldn’t even have been enough matter left afterward to differentiate organic from inorganic.

“You still need the activation code for that, you know,” FN-2187 said, almost impressed, and shoved hard into Dameron’s throat as punishment. “But nice try.”

FN-2187 kept his grip on Dameron’s forearm as leverage as he thrust, forcing Dameron off-balance, and used his other hand to tug at the man’s thick curls. It had been weeks since his last manual release and even longer since he’d last had sex, and he felt his body drawing tighter, readying itself for orgasm—only the threat of Ren’s displeasure was enough to completely stave it off.

“Halt,” said Ren, evidently aware of FN-2187’s physical state, and FN-2187 made himself obey. He drew his cock slowly from Dameron’s mouth; it was proud and erect, dripping with precum and saliva, and Dameron turned his head to avoid looking at it, breaking the long string of saliva that stretched between his lips and FN-2187’s cock.

“Enjoying this?” he asked Ren, coughing weakly and wiping his chin. “I know you like to watch.”

“Strip,” said Ren.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep the shirt,” Dameron said. “I mean, not that either of you’ve probably noticed, but it’s pretty kriffing cold in here.”

“Strip him,” Ren told FN-2187, and when FN-2187 stepped forward Dameron moved to capitulate. His unclothed body was patterned with scars and bruises, some fresh, some healing, and while he lacked the advanced musculature of an infantry soldier he was still relatively fit. When he shed his pants and underwear FN-2187 saw he was, like Zeroes, uncircumcised—there was no sense of privacy or modesty in the barracks—and also completely soft.

Not that the last part mattered at all to FN-2187. This wasn’t about Dameron’s pleasure or even his own: this was about protecting the peace, about doing what he could to ensure the safety of the First Order’s constituents. This was the role FN-2187 had been assigned, and he would would not give it any less than his all.

“You’ve been careless,” murmured Ren, trailing one gloved hand down Dameron’s back, over a particularly large, gnarled scar. Dameron twisted away from the touch, but Ren kept his hand on Dameron’s body as he circled him, like a master inspecting his property. “Reckless. Look at you.”

“That’s what happens when you’re fighting the good fight,” said Dameron. “Not that you’d remember what it’s like.”

“Whereas you yourself have forgotten how to properly fear,” Ren said smoothly. “But don’t worry. I plan to remind you.”

Dameron’s mouth twitched, but even he had enough self-preservation not to voice his particular thoughts on that aloud. FN-2187 similarly kept his curiosity to himself as he listened to the two continue bickering, sniping at each other with easy familiarity; it was as if, despite the situation, they’d forgotten FN-2187 was even there. Dameron didn’t appear intimidated that Ren towered over him or by his own nudity in front of two enemy captors, and Ren allowed Dameron to continue mouthing off instead of silencing his often cryptic allusions to some shared history. Logically FN-2187 knew that all men had a past and Kylo Ren was no exception, but still it was jarring to think of him as anything other than the mystical, formidable right arm of the First Order—but then again it was not FN-2187’s place to wonder, only to obey.

“Enough of this indulgence,” Ren said finally. “FN-2187. How will you take him?” 

FN-2187 froze momentarily; it was the first time Ren had asked for his opinion and in general he was not accustomed to giving it. Reminded of the present task, however, it was his anger that flared most strongly within him, igniting his grief, and the answer was simple:

“I don’t even want to _look_ at him.”

A movement of Ren’s wrist, and then Dameron was getting to his knees in front of FN-2187 once again, but this time facing away. For a moment he held himself upright, but Ren forced him down until he was on his hands and knees, his thighs spread wide, his hole exposed for FN-2187 to take. 

Dameron was radiating humiliation so strongly that even FN-2187 could feel it, and it only strengthened his resolve. Without needing direction from Ren he too dropped to his knees, the plasteel of his armor thudding heavily against the ground. He’d never fucked anyone in this manner before, never given it much consideration with either men or women, but he knew the technicalities of the act—knew, also, that even with preparation, it tended to hurt.

 _Good,_ he thought.

He had softened a bit during the earlier proceedings, so he stroked himself clumsily a few times through his gloves, the armor making dull clanking noises as he moved. Dameron kept his head bowed, but every few seconds he would steal a glance over his shoulder at FN-2187—the movement was subtle, but FN-2187 caught the glimpse of fear in Dameron’s eyes that even his façade of nonchalance couldn’t entirely mask. 

“Take him, FN-2187,” said Ren. It felt as if he was whispering directly into FN-2187’s ear. “Take from him what you’re owed.”

On command, FN-2187 pushed forward into the prisoner, the saliva drying on his cock not nearly enough to make it easy. Dameron made short, pained noises with every inch more that FN-2187 moved; it wasn’t particularly pleasurable for him, either, the friction on his cock almost unbearable as he forced himself inside. Dameron’s body was impossibly tight, muscles resisting the intrusion—completely unlike the sensation of his own hand or even normal intercourse, and it was this novelty FN-2187 focused on, clutching Dameron’s hips tight enough to bruise.

Soon enough Dameron’s body loosened enough for FN-2187 to properly fuck him; his gasps rose in pitch and he trembled under FN-2187’s hands, but he refused to cry out, refused to plead for mercy. A few stifled groans escaped his lips but for the most part he was silent save for the forceful exhalations FN-2187 pushed out of him one after another, counterpoint to his own heavy breathing and the percussive smack of their bodies as they met. 

“Tell me where you’ve hidden the map,” said Kylo Ren, “and this can end.”

Dameron raised his head. “ _No_.”

“You cannot keep me out for much longer,” said Ren. “The blocks your general taught you to construct will fail. And when they do, your mind will be entirely at my mercy, and you will realize you’ve made a sacrifice of your body for nothing.”

“I’d sacrifice anything and everything,” Dameron said, gasping, “for the sake of the Resistance.”

“Then you shall,” said Ren. 

He turned away from them then as if he’d grown bored and without the weight of his attention it became easier for FN-2187 to concentrate on the physical act. The absence of the usual prophylactic sheath made a noticeable, incredible difference in sensation as he slid his cock in and out of Dameron’s clenching bowels, which tightened and rippled around him, resisting the intrusion but unable to actively fight it. Each of the sharp hisses and cut-off gasps he was making through his teeth went straight to the primal part of FN-2187’s brain, and the tense shift of muscles under his scarred, bruised skin was something to be admired. FN-2187 had never imagined having sex like this—so greedy and rough, and while he wasn’t sure if he entirely liked it his cock liked it well enough for the rest of him.

He was so focused on his task that he failed to notice when Ren returned. Only a strange noise from Dameron alerted him, and FN-2187 looked up to see Ren crouching in front of the prisoner, sliding his gloved fingers past his lips. FN-2187 grew anxious suddenly that Ren might be planning to join, to take Dameron’s mouth while FN-2187 continued to fuck him, but Ren simply thrust deep with his fingers, forcing Dameron to gag. The movements of Ren’s fingers were wet and obscene—but nothing compared to the sounds Dameron was making around them, deep and desperate and pained, now that he could no longer silence himself. 

FN-2187 began to pull Dameron’s hips back toward him with every thrust, making each movement just that much sweeter, and suddenly Dameron made a noise deep in his throat, low and sensual and unlike anything that had come before. FN-2187 recognized with stunned amazement that it was a moan of _pleasure_ —that Dameron was getting off on his own assault—and when he reached down shortly to confirm he found Dameron’s cock hard and heavy against his palm.

“Yes,” said Ren, responding to FN-2187’s unspoken question. “You’ll come from this.” Dameron made a series of sounds that must have been a reply; Ren pulled his fingers from Dameron’s throat so he could speak.

“I said, not while I’m looking at you,” Dameron said, and Ren’s reaction was immediate—Dameron’s snide laugh became a wheeze as Ren moved his fingers in midair. The inside of Dameron’s body spasmed around FN-2187’s cock, the pressure almost overwhelming, and FN-2187 slowed his pace, savoring that incredible tightness.

“I can make you do anything I choose,” Ren murmured, hand extended. “I can make all human touch unbearable except my own. I can make you crave the darkness, the humiliation—make it impossible to go without. I can even,” he said, curling his hand into a fist, “send your body back to the Resistance with your mind loyal to the First Order. As loyal as FN-2187.”

Dameron’s elbows buckled, causing his spine to arch, and FN-2187 nearly lost his grip on Dameron’s hips, surprised by the new angle. When Dameron made no move to push himself back up, FN-2187 looked down—Dameron’s head was turned to the side, cheek pressed to the floor. His mouth gaped open soundlessly, his split lip bleeding freely, and he was... 

Dameron was crying. Had been, for a while, and hiding it well; for the first time FN-2187 felt something like pity stirring within him, tainting the current of anger running through his veins—had there truly been no other way to break down the prisoner’s mental barriers? Was the information he’d stolen that instrumental to the First Order, could it truly guarantee the safety of so many innocent lives?

 _It must be,_ FN-2187 told himself. _It has to be._

He looked away from Dameron’s face, letting his gaze settle wander from the scar on his back to the imprint his own gloves were leaving on Dameron’s hips. The body below him was twisting against the cold metal floor, struggling for oxygen, and when FN-2187 tightened his grip and shoved forward hard Dameron made a small, anguished noise and climaxed; only when he finally stilled did Ren release his hold on Dameron’s throat and lean back, his satisfaction almost palpable.

“See how your body betrays you,” he said as Dameron sucked in a tearing lungful of air. “As your mind has, and will, at the slightest compulsion.” 

“Go to hell,” Dameron choked out, a shudder running through his body, and Ren laughed softly, dangerously. He reached down to wipe his wet fingers in Dameron’s curls before roughly tugging him back up on all fours, keeping Dameron’s face tilted in his direction.

“Continue, FN-2187,” he said. “Do not withdraw until you have finished.” 

FN-2187 was close and burning up with it; permission had been given, and he hastened to obey. His bodysuit was damp with perspiration as he fucked into Dameron’s body with purpose and after only a few more thrusts reached orgasm, nearly painful in its intensity and leaving him groaning loudly through gritted teeth. Never before had he spent his seed inside another person’s body, either—a part of him was shamefully thrilled the Resistance spy would be carrying within him the mark of the trooper who had broken him.

“Good,” said Ren when FN-2187 had finished. “Now stand.”

FN-2187 pulled out of Dameron’s body, his cock coated in semen and still half-erect, and got to his feet. He felt sticky and exposed, but even though his armor lay on the floor only a few feet away, somehow he was certain Ren would be angered were he to move. Something about Ren’s current demeanor warned him against taking any further liberties—FN-2187 could sense the danger emanating from him where he crouched in front of the Resistance pilot, forcing him to meet his gaze. With a last twist of Dameron’s hair, Ren released him; Dameron settled stiffly on his knees and dropped his hands into his lap, but made no real move to cover himself. 

There was a pool of fluid on the floor of the cell where Dameron had come; Ren indicated it with a nod of his head. “Clean this up.”

“Sure thing,” said Dameron, before planting his hand in it and smearing it across the floor. FN-2187 gasped silently, unable to believe the prisoner’s sheer insolence—even now, after everything, he still insisted on provoking Kylo Ren. It had been made abundantly clear he would not permit Dameron to die, but he seemed intent on making Ren go back on his word. 

Instead of laying into Dameron or using the Force as FN-2187 expected, though, Ren simply directed his gaze across the room to where FN-2187 stood. “Commander,” he said. “Clean him up.”

Dameron stared. “I don’t think so.”

“You will,” said Ren. 

“Or what, you’ll make me?” Dameron said, refusing to even glance at FN-2187. “Because I think you’re gonna have to.”

“I will not,” Ren said calmly. “You’ve given me their names and their faces. Karé. Wexley. Sella. Testor. Iolo. Asty. Connix. They will all be taken in time, even the droids. Perhaps I will let you choose the order in which they are given to the troops. Perhaps I will even let you choose one to spare.”

Before Ren had finished speaking Dameron lunged at him; Ren stopped him easily with a gesture and Dameron froze in place, expression twisted in hatred. “You’re not even _human_ ,” he snarled, the first time FN-2187 had seen his composure break. “I don’t give a fuck what the general says—I’ll put you in the ground myself.” 

“Your general is a spineless creature, beholden to sentimentality,” said Ren. “Her lack of ethos will be the undoing of the Resistance.”

“Say that to her face,” Dameron spat. “Oh, wait—you can’t, because you’re too scared to show _yours_ after everything you did—”

“ _Enough,_ ” Ren said, dragging the prisoner upright. “Where. Is. The. Map?”

Inside his head FN-2187 caught himself silently urging Dameron to answer, to end this interrogation and his own suffering, to do the right thing by working with the First Order instead of against it, but Dameron said nothing.

Ren made a noise of impatience. “Do this,” he said, “and I will personally grant the general you so foolishly idolize a quick, painless death. Refuse, and she will be the first to accept what we call _justice_.” 

Dameron's face, FN-2187 noticed, was shining wetly as he shook his head. “I take it back,” he said, his voice hollow. “Even a Sith would never... You’ll pay for this, I swear on my mother’s memory.” 

Ren said nothing in reply. What seemed like hours passed before Dameron turned away from him and toward FN-2187 and shuffled forward on his knees. His eyes were shut tight, his face hovering just inches away from FN-2187’s cock; for a moment it looked like Dameron truly would refuse, but then with a sharp exhale he took hold of it and began to lick gingerly at the tip. He kept his eyes closed, navigating by touch, as he dragged his tongue up FN-2187’s shaft in long swipes, cleaning off his own blood and internal residue as well as FN-2187’s thick semen, and to FN-2187’s surprise he felt himself beginning to harden even though barely any time had passed at all. 

Dameron must have sensed it as well; he opened his eyes in alarm, hesitating, and FN-2187 took the opportunity to jam his half-hard cock fully into Dameron’s mouth. “Don’t fight it,” he said, fisting his glove in Dameron’s hair. “Don’t make it any worse for yourself.”

Dameron’s throat was spasming around FN-2187’s cock, resisting the growing length of it as FN-2187’s hips began to find a rhythm. When he thrust forward hard enough to make Dameron gag, the man cried out in protest, and FN-2187 pulled out far enough to force Dameron to follow. His tongue was streaked white and red as he chased FN-2187’s rigid cock, finally closing his lips around the head and hollowing out his cheeks. Dameron was remarkably skilled, and before long FN-2187 could feel his orgasm coiling like a spring low in the pit of his stomach. Involuntarily he began to picture the prisoner on his knees for other men—for Kylo Ren, for General Hux, even for Nines and Zeroes—and it was the filthiness of the images that finally pushed FN-2187 over the edge, causing him to spill into Dameron’s throat without warning. 

“Swallow,” he ordered, fingers pulling tight as Dameron choked on his load—the second FN-2187 had put inside him in less than an hour. When FN-2187 released him, Dameron reared back and retched onto the floor what looked to be mostly bile and semen, barely missing FN-2187’s boots. FN-2187 considered striking him for that, but held back; instead he took Dameron by the chin and forced him to look up. 

“Give Lord Ren what he wants,” he said quietly. Dameron’s eyes slid away, but FN-2187 shook him until he looked back. “You can’t win against the First Order—but if you stop resisting, there’s a chance you can still spare your friends.”

“Fuck you,” said Dameron. He closed his eyes and FN-2187 shoved him away, unsure which of them he was more disappointed in. 

Ren caught him with the Force and then lay him down, almost tenderly, on the floor. Dameron’s eyes fluttered open for a second as Ren knelt over him, pulling his limp body into Ren’s lap.

“You still resist me,” he intoned, brushing the tears from Dameron’s face. “No matter. I have found what I need.”

“No,” Dameron whispered. “Stop. No.”

“Yes.” Ren’s voice was soft, almost tender. “The map was just the first. In time it will all belong to me.”

Dameron curled away from Ren’s touch, drawing up his knees like a child. “Stop—no,” he begged. “Not that.”

“Lord Ren,” FN-2187 blurted out, suddenly desperate to leave the cell. “May I be of further assistance?” 

“Your assistance is no longer required,” said Ren; he didn’t bother looking at FN-2187. “You may replace your armor and report back to your division.”

“Yes, sir.” FN-2187 dressed quickly and retrieved his blaster rifle, but much like earlier in the briefing room there was still something unasked on the tip of his tongue. “Sir,” he began without knowing what came next, and Ren looked up and met his gaze.

“FN-2187,” he said. “You have done the First Order a great service by assisting in the recovery of this information.”

“It was my duty, sir,” FN-2187 said, uncomfortable.

Ren nodded magnanimously. “I shall impress upon your captain my satisfaction with your performance today. She need not further doubt your loyalty.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now leave us,” said Ren, and FN-2187 did so, looking backward only once before the door to the cell slid shut. 

True to his word, Kylo Ren had communicated with Phasma; she declined to send him back to reconditioning when he reported back, instead allowing him to take his evening meal and giving no further orders beyond that. FN-2187 skipped the galley and went straight for the showers; occasionally another similarly undressed trooper would walk by and give FN-2187 an appreciative once-over, but he paid them no heed as he let the recycled water scald his skin.

The billet he’d shared with three was now shared with two; it was only a matter of time before a new batch of troopers would arrive to fill up the ranks they’d lost on Jakku. The thought of having to integrate a stranger into their fire-team made FN-2187’s insides twist into knots—even more so if they were freshly graduated, naive in the face of reality. He crawled into his bunk and turned to face the wall, idly reading the same section of his tactics manual over and over until the glowing letters turned into a blur.

Nines and Zeroes showed up a few minutes before lights-out, freshly showered and visibly exhausted. Both of them seemed surprised to find FN-2187 in the barracks, though Nines’ expression quickly became shuttered. Zeroes, on the other hand, greeted FN-2187 somberly but without reservation, as if Slip’s absence was compelling him to mend his friendship with FN-2187 after weeks of resentful tension.

“Where’ve you been all day?” he said, tugging off his boots. “The captain drilled us so hard today one of the guys from section three stabbed himself in the leg with a force-pike just to get out of it. I think he’s probably still in recon right now.”

“Captain Phasma gave FN-2187 a special assignment,” said Nines, tone devoid of all emotion, without looking at either of them.

“‘Special assignment’? What does _that_ mean?” said Zeroes. One of his thick, expressive brows lifted in surprise. “Did she make you taste Hux’s meals? Sing songs to the younglings, give the giant ‘noga its monthly sponge bath?”

FN-2187’s stomach lurched at the idea of anyone else finding out what had happened inside that darkened cell, despite what Kylo Ren had said at the end. He looked over at Nines, who was still deflecting his gaze, and cleared his throat. 

“I don’t think I’m allowed to talk about it,” he said slowly. “It was... tough.”

“Never expected to hear _you_ say that,” said Zeroes. He flung his body into the bunk, turning over onto his stomach, and settled in to sleep. “Weird kriffing day today.”

“Yeah,” said FN-2187. He kept his eyes open even after the lights had shut off and Nines’ snores filled the air, staring at the bottom of the bunk that had been Slip’s. He stared until the black of the barracks became the black of his closed eyelids became the black of the prison cell—he tried to think about anything else, ship schematics or troop formations or decontamination protocols, but the blackness consumed him, surrounded him. The black of his blaster rifle as he laid it on the floor, of the torture droid that loomed silently over his shoulder, of the material of his gloves as they pulled and maneuvered and immobilized— 

The black of Kylo Ren’s form in the shadows, ordering FN-2187 to _take_ —

The black of Poe Dameron’s eyes, devoid of anything resembling hope—

FN-2187 bolted from his bunk and ran to the refresher to throw up what little of the midday meal still remained in his stomach. 

He didn’t sleep that night, nor the next; by the second day he was running on empty, and it showed. During melee training he was disarmed within seconds by an FO-class cadet and recovered his weapon only for Blink, a trooper from section four, to knock him flat onto his back so hard he momentarily lost consciousness. When he woke it felt everyone else in the training room was staring down at him, judging him, knowing exactly why he had let this happen.

“Rough day, Eight-seven,” Zeroes said that night in the barracks. “Too bad there isn’t anything in the medbay to heal your wounded pride.”

“You looked pathetic,” Nines agreed, but there was something companionable about it, as if seeing FN-2187 knocked down a peg had continued to help ease their strained dynamic.

“Thanks for the sympathy,” said FN-2187, rolling his eyes.

Zeroes patted him on the shoulder. “Blink feels pretty bad about what happened, by the way. She said you should come see her sometime and let her give you some _pointers_ ,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t know the two of you were still, you know...”

FN-2187 shrugged. “We’re not,” he said. “Not really. It was a few times.”

“Well, if I were you, I’d take that offer and go over there to give her a pointer of my own,” said Zeroes, and FN-2187 forced himself to laugh with the both of them. Blink was an excellent trooper and FN-2187 liked her, but the only thing further from his mind than his “wounded pride” was anything having to do with sex. It already felt surreal, and somehow shameful, just to be laughing with Nines and Zeroes when Slip wasn’t around to join in, when FN-2187 had spent the last two nights hiding from the nightmares he knew he deserved. Too much had changed for things to ever go back to normal. He had changed, and changed too much. 

He slept that night from sheer exhaustion, which thankfully kept him from remembering any of his dreams, and the next day’s training passed in a blur. FN-2187 kept his thoughts in the moment, focused on moving his body with sharp precision, and when Phasma finally dismissed them for the evening she looked directly at FN-2187 and nodded once, approval evident in the nearly invisible motion.

“I’ll pass,” he told Nines and Zeroes when they invited him to play cards with some of the other troopers; he’d been ready to feign illness, but luckily they didn’t bother asking for his excuse. “You guys have fun without me.”

“We will,” Nines said with a straight face, and FN-2187 punched him lightly on the shoulder, them Zeroes. Neither of his friends had any way of knowing this was goodbye, and FN-2187 closed his eyes as they left, not wanting to see them go. They’d been together since their teens; FN-2187 had not so much as slept a single night without their presence. The notion of a future without them was nearly impossible to comprehend.

A moment later, however, he opened his eyes and began to formulate a plan. 

It was on a gut feeling, a crazy impulse, and trepidatious feet that FN-2187 returned to the detention block twenty minutes later, blaster rifle in hand. “Lord Ren wants the prisoner,” he said, hoping he seemed authoritative enough, and breathed a silent sigh of relief when the guard outside the cell opened the door. 

Dameron looked up at his arrival, eyes dull. He was fully dressed, but otherwise much worse than when FN-2187 had left. Both of his eyes had been blackened, his nose looked broken, and blood was flowing freely from his left temple. FN-2187 wondered, feeling sick, if other troopers had been made to have their way with him and, if so, how many had there been, but it wouldn’t help to dwell on it now.

The trooper standing guard inside the cell—FO-1344, his HUD informed him—blocked FN-2187’s way when he stepped toward the prisoner. “There’s no relief scheduled,” they said. “I wasn’t told to expect you.”

“Of course you weren’t,” said FN-2187, attempting to channel Phasma’s intimidatingly cool demeanor. “These orders come from Kylo Ren himself. He wants the prisoner.”

Dameron began to struggle suddenly, rattling the bonds of the interrogation chair; FO-1344 looked back at him briefly before refocusing on FN-2187. “Why would Lord Ren wish to interrogate the prisoner outside the cell?”

FN-2187 took another forward, raising his blaster rifle just enough to show he was serious. “You dare question him?” 

“That’s not what I meant,” said FO-1344, but began tapping the control panel on the side of the chair. “Here. He’s all yours.”

FN-2187 ended up half-escorting, half-dragging Dameron out of the cell and into the main corridor. He kept his blaster rifle jabbed into Dameron’s side, searching for the best opportunity to make his move inconspicuously and before anyone could question what an FN-class trooper was doing on level five.

“Turn here,” he said at last, leading the other man down a service tunnel. Several yards in, Dameron turned and swung his manacled wrists at FN-2187’s torso, catching him off-guard and nearly causing him to drop his blaster rifle. FN-2187 had the advantage but Dameron was a scrappy, agile fighter, ducking and lunging as he targeted the joins in FN-2187’s armor. FN-2187 couldn’t tell if Dameron had been faking his infirmity minutes earlier or if the imminent prospect of Kylo Ren had given him a last-minute burst of strength—either way he was proving unexpectedly difficult to subdue.

“Stop it,” hissed FN-2187. “Somebody’s gonna hear—I’m trying to—” 

Dameron swung at FN-2187 again, clipping the underside of his helmet, and FN-2187 decided it was enough. Using Dameron’s momentum against him, FN-2187 managed to get him pinned facefirst against the wall, trapping his arms, and leaned in close to speak.

“Listen carefully,” he said, and Dameron turned his head to pay attention. “Do exactly as I say and I can get you out of here.”

“What?”

“I’m not taking you to Kylo Ren,” said FN-2187, hoping to allay the prisoner’s worst fears. “I just needed to get you out of that cell—will you stop fighting and just _listen_ to me?” 

Dameron continued to struggle. “Let go of me,” he said, eyes filled with terror, and it finally clicked in FN-2187’s head. Dameron thought FN-2187 had brought him here to—

“No, no! I’m not going to hurt you,” said FN-2187, horrified, and released his hold on the man. “This is a _rescue_ —I’m helping you escape.”

He was anticipating another strike, but this time Dameron stood still as FN-2187 outlined his plan. “Can you fly a TIE fighter?” FN-2187 asked, hoping against hope.

“You’re not with the Resistance,” said Dameron. He was still looking at FN-2187 with wary eyes. “You’re with the First Order.”

“Not any more,” said FN-2187. “I’m breaking us both out. Can you fly a—”

“I can fly anything,” Dameron said without too much pride, as if it was a simple fact of the universe. “And you need a pilot.”

FN-2187 nodded. “I need a pilot.” 

But he knew somehow that Dameron still wasn’t convinced, and he was proven right when Dameron said, “Why should I believe you’re helping me?”

“Because...” FN-2187 hesitated, unsure how to prove that this wasn’t a ploy or some twisted First Order mindgame. Reaching for his helmet, he removed it and set it aside; Dameron drew back in surprise, clearly not expecting him to risk exposing any vulnerable points. Free of the helmet, FN-2187 took a breath of relatively fresh air and said, “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Dameron stared at him then, and even Kylo Ren’s masked scrutiny was nothing compared to Dameron’s dark, depthless eyes, searching for something in FN-2187’s naked face. FN-2187 stared back, and finally Dameron looked away, seemingly satisfied with what he had found—or that he hadn’t, in fact, found anything at all.

“A little late,” he said in a tight voice, but he held out his shackled wrists to FN-2187 all the same. “Let’s do this.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote some elaboration on my thought process in this [thread](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/53529841) (especially the ending) for those who are curious.
> 
> All comments/kudos are appreciated, and any remixes/sequels/translations are heartily encouraged. Thank you for reading!


End file.
